


a whisper in the ear

by rizcriz



Series: the i love you collection [8]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, i kept it vague bc canon deserves nothing more, okay sure maybe the finale happened maybe it didnt you decide, quentins trying to read and eliots a tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 13:46:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20489855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: Quentin’s sitting in the living room, reading a book — something new that Kady had tossed to him when she came back from the library to help him “find a new obsession preferably not created by a pedophile, yeah?” — with his legs tucked up underneath him. His hair falls from it’s place behind his ear, and he reaches up to tuck it back into its place; a fruitless task but a habit that he’s not likely to break unless he cuts his hair. He shuffles further into the cushion of the couch, brow furrowing as the protagonist in the book hears a strange noise and decides to follow it. He shakes his head at her — never fucking following the strange noise, Patrice, god — but turns the page anyways.The sound of the front door opening and closing fills the room, but it’s not enough to break his concentration. The books great, and the characters in it don’t make the best life decisions, but he can’t help but think that that’s why he relates to them. He still jumps when a creature jumps out of the closet and bares it’s teeth at Patrice. Still tries not to cheer, when a couple paragraphs later, she jabs the broken leg of a chair through its chest.--Or, even the thousandth i love you can be the first i love you.





	a whisper in the ear

Quentin’s sitting in the living room, reading a book — something new that Kady had tossed to him when she came back from the library to help him “find a new obsession preferably not created by a pedophile, yeah?” — with his legs tucked up underneath him. His hair falls from it’s place behind his ear, and he reaches up to tuck it back into its place; a fruitless task but a habit that he’s not likely to break unless he cuts his hair. He shuffles further into the cushion of the couch, brow furrowing as the protagonist in the book hears a strange noise and decides to follow it. He shakes his head at her — never fucking following the strange noise, Patrice, _god_ — but turns the page anyways.

The sound of the front door opening and closing fills the room, but it’s not enough to break his concentration. The books great, and the characters in it don’t make the best life decisions, but he can’t help but think that that’s why he relates to them. He still jumps when a creature jumps out of the closet and bares it’s teeth at Patrice. Still tries not to cheer, when a couple paragraphs later, she jabs the broken leg of a chair through its chest.

“He’s still reading that thing?” He hears Margo ask. From his peripheral he can see her set her bag down on the couch opposite him, can almost make out her rolling her eyes as Eliot makes his way around the couch.

“Be _nice,_ Bambi, he’s decompressing.”

“Why can’t he decompress with shopping like the rest of us?”

Quentin’s brow furrows as he goes back to read the sentence the previous paragraph.

“Because,” Eliot says, much closer now as he rounds the back of the couch Quentin’s on, “he’s our high strung super nerd. He can’t very well nerd out without something to nerd out on.” He trails his hand along the back of the couch as he makes his way to Quentin.

Margo sighs, and Quentin can almost hear her roll her eyes before she starts walking towards the kitchen. The sound of her heels clacking along the linoleum punctuate every word in the paragraph Quentin’s rereading for the third time; all too aware of Eliot getting closer with each word his eyes skim past. “One day,” she calls from the kitchen, “I’m going to show him that an orgasm is _far superior_ to a book for decompressing.”

Eliot huffs out a laugh from behind Quentin. “I think that’s my job, Bambi.” His hand slides across the couch to settle on the side of Quentin’s shoulder, and he leans down to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Are you completely lost to us, or just pretending to still be reading?”

Quentin pretends not to hear him, and despite having not registered a single word since ‘_Patrice set the creatures head on the table and’, _and wondering just what in the hell she’s going to tell the man that sent it after her, Quentin moves his hand to the bottom of the page and prematurely turns it to the next page. He glances at the first word on the page, wondering just what in the fuck he’d missed when it says _‘the gun fell to the floor with a clatter’_, but all in all too distracted to even read beyond that, when Eliot’s hand slides over his shoulder to settle on his clavicle.

And they wonder why he’s been reading the same book for a week.

Kady’s asked him _three times_ if he’s ready for her to bring him the second book. Julia’s already read through it. _Twice. _And keeps asking him when they can talk about it, because_, god, Q, the plot twist at the end— _

Eliot hums thoughtfully above him, and Quentin’s heart jumps. He tries not to swallow as a soft chuckle follows the hum, because _clearly_ he’s not being as subtle as he’d like to be. He really does want to just finish the damn book, but Eliot’s back, and lately an hour apart feels like a century, and it makes sense considering how much time they’d spent forcibly separated by their circumstances, but damn it, Quentin is his own man and —

Eliot brings up his free hand and settles it on his shoulder, pressing another kiss into his hair. “You’re tense,” he murmurs, breath rustling his hair. “I’m sure you’re not too far gone for a massage.” He leans in further, ducking his head to press his cheek against Quentin’s temple. “Though, I don’t think you’re that far gone, at all. Are you, Q?”

Oh, he’s far gone, all right.

Just not how Eliot means.

Still, he steadies himself, and pretends to focus on the book. Desperately flitting his eyes over the page, hoping that for once they’ll register and he won’t have to go back and try to re-read it all later, but Eliot squeezes his shoulder and stands up again, the hand on Quentin’s clavicle sliding back to settle overtop his other shoulder.

“He’s never going to finish that book if you keep distracting him,” Margo notes, suddenly back in the living room.

“Please,” Eliot huffs, but Quentin can hear the stupid fucking smirk in his voice as he presses his thumbs into the meat of Quentin’s shoulder. The words go blurry, and a little, rushed breath forces itself out of his chest at the pressure. “He hasn’t read a single word since he heard us walk through the front door.”

Quentin’s eyes slide shut as Margo’s heel clack across the floor. “Is that so?”

“When he’s reading, he’s like a kitten having a dream,” Eliot tells her, confident and cool, as he works all the tension out of Quentin’s shoulders. _Bastard, _Quentin thinks, even as his neck lolls slightly to the side, and a soft little moan eases its way out. “He basically lives it all out, makes the faces he thinks the characters are making.” His hands pause, and Quentin very nearly turns his head to glare up at him and tell him he’s not allowed to stop, “It’s adorable.” His fingers dig into Quentin’s shoulders again, and the breath catches in Quentin’s throat. “But it’s also impossible to get through.”

“He’s practically a zombie,” Margo agrees.

“But right now . . .” He pauses, just to slide his right hand, with it’s icy rings, over Quentin’s shoulder so his fingers can dip into the fabric, and press up against his breast bone. The heat from his fingers is only diluted by the cool of his rings, and Quentin’s heart pounds painfully in his chest in it’s desperation to feel the contrast as intimately as it can. “He’s like putty in my hands.”

Quentin gives up the charade, and lets the book topple out of his hand and onto the couch beside him, leaning back and into Eliot’s touch. Eliot laughs above him, and Quentin just huffs, eyebrows furrowing, without bothering to open his eyes. “I hate you,” he mumbles. “I’m _never_ going to finish that book.”

“It’s not _my_ fault you’re dating the hottest person you know.” His hand slides out of Quentin’s shirt and takes its place on his shoulder again. “Or that you’re incapable of resisting my wiles.”

“No,” Quentin nods, shivering as Eliot’s thumb brushes the side of his neck, scratching up against his hairline, “but it _is_ your fault that you’re _evil.” _

_“Okay,” _Margo says, “I’m going before you two bang it out on the couch. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy the show, but because I want plausible deniability when Alice asks what that smell is.”

Quentin frowns, opening his eyes. He twists his neck to look at her. “We’re not going to—“ The word breaks off, shuddering off into a surprised little moan as Eliot digs his thumb into a particularly tender knot of muscle, “oh my _god.” _

The sound of Margos laughter follows her as she turns and heads up the stairs without bothering to reply.

Eliot gently kneads at the muscle, leaning down to press a kiss to Quentin’s temple. “Hi.”

“Don’t you — _ohdeargod_ — hi m—me.”

He laughs, slowing his fingers to a stop, and moving further down to press a kiss to Quentin’s cheekbone. Quentin whines, wiggling his shoulders in a sad attempt to get him to keep moving.“Q,” He says, chiding, “If you really enjoyed that book, it wouldn’t be so easy for me to distract you.”

Quentin scoffs. “You know damn well that’s not true.” He huffs, pressing his shoulders up.

Eliot freezes for a beat, before Quentin feels the curve of his cheeks pressing up against his. “Oh?” He asks, soft, “So . . . Would you rather I keep my hands to myself, and leave you to your book?” He laughs as Quentin turns his head to glare at him heatlessly.

“I love you, El, but if you don’t—“ He freezes, and Eliot does too, all but a tilt of his head, as Quentin realizes what he’s said. Quentin bites down on his bottom lip and looks away, heart pounding in his chest. It’s not that they haven’t said they love one another. They had fifty years to get used to it. To become so accustom to it that it felt as normal as a hello and as intimate as a kiss, all at once. But, here, now, _together _has been so much of an abstract concept, and then quickly so much more that . . . I love you feels as foreign as an old, unspoken language.

Which, he supposes, he can kind of define their relationship as such. An unspoken love language. Actions and moments more than words.

He swallows thickly and squeezes his eyes shut, dragging his hands into his lap so he can wring his fingers together. It’s not that he thinks Eliot’s going to run, either, despite his history of bolting at the slightest hint of anything true and real and deep as what they have. They’ve both moved past running.

It’s just.

No, yeah, it’s exactly that he’s a little afraid that Eliot’s going to let go of him and run as far and as fast as he can, a desperate, _“I’m sure Alice is somewhere around here,”_ thrown over his shoulder.

Eliot swallows loud enough for Quentin to hear, and he moves again, to press his head against the side of Quentin’s temple. “You love me?” He asks softly, a thousand emotions backing the words. Despite himself, Quentin nods, and Eliot inhales quick, like it’s involuntary, and then he’s squeezing Quentin’s shoulders again — less with intent, and more because he _needs_ to. His breath eases out over the shell of Quentin’s ear. “That’s — that’s good, Q,” He murmurs, the words thick and quiet, barely more than the brush of Eliot’s lips against Quentin’s skin. “Because _I_ love _you,_ too.”

It takes a beat for the words to register, and then Quentin’s heart’s hammering in his chest as he jerks around so fast he barely narrowly avoids crashing their heads together — though, he probably owes that more to Eliot’s quick reflexes — so he can look up at him, wide eyed and hopeful. “Yeah?” He asks. He doesn’t dare hope.

Evidently his masochistic heart hasn’t gotten the message, though, because it’s swelling up with so much hope he’s afraid it might actually _burst._

Eliot watches him, fondness spreading before he slides his hand up Quentin’s shoulder and around until he can wrap it at the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he says, a genuine smile making it’s way across his lips, until the rare crinkles at the corner of his eyes appear, and his eyes go a little glassy. “Hard to believe it’s taken us this long to say it.”

“I didn’t want to scare you off.” Quentin admits.

Eliot squeezes the back of his neck. “Oh,” he breathes, before straightening his shoulders and looking at him meaningfully. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Q. Not this time. Okay?” Not this time. Quentin inhales, lets the words bounce around in his head for so long that Eliot’s looking at him meaningfully and then repeating them. “Okay?”

He makes himself nod; it’s barely more than a jerky shake of his head, before he’s twisting around and clumsily reaching up with both hands as they both awkwardly move in. His hands bury themselves in the fabric of Eliot’s vest — which, thank fuck he’s brought the vests back — and he leans up, stretching his neck, and Eliot twists too, until their lips meet in the middle somewhere, and then they’re kissing.

He pulls away after a moment, still close enough that his lips brush against Eliot’s when he breathes. “Say it again?” he asks, eyes fluttering as Eliot’s breath fans over his lips and cheeks.

Smiling, Eliot presses in, a chaste touch of their lips, “I love you,” he says, “You, too.”

Quentin kisses him. “I love you.”

Another kiss. “I love you, too.”

Quentin laughs, a little manic thing bubbling out of his chest, shifts so he’s pressing his lips to Eliot’s cheek. “I’m never going to finish that book,” he says, only mildly mournful.

Eliot laughs, nodding. “I could go —"

“No, nope. No, you definitely _cannot.”_ He squeezes his fists tighter in Eliot’s vest. “Patrice was doing something stupid, anyways.”

Eliot’s chest rumbles as he laughs, “Oh yeah?”

Making a face, Quentin pulls back enough to look at him guiltily. “I don’t know,” He admits, “I haven’t read a word since I got the text that you guys were on your way back. And I know damn well I’m not going to read anymore today.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Eliot smirks, quirking an eyebrow and pulling back without unraveling them. “What if I had more plans with—“

Quentin shakes his head. “Me. You have plans with me. Upstairs.” He raises his eyes, and laughs when Eliot’s eyes go wide with understanding. “Banter is fun. But . . .”

Eliot pulls away entirely, gently prying Quentin’s hands from his vest. “Sex is better, message received.” He takes a step back from the couch and holds a hand out to him. Quentin stares at it for a minute, before grinning and taking it so Eliot can drag him over the couch and up the stairs.


End file.
